Never Got to Say Goodbye
by Lady Juse
Summary: Sherlock gets news he'd hope he'd never get. Rated for mentions of violence and drugs.
1. Chapter 1

There was a knock at the door.

"John?" Sherlock called, as he was in the middle of an experiment.

No answer. John must have left for work. Dull.

Sherlock answered the door. It was a young man, in his mid-20's. Army. Not high rank. A Private.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the Private asked. His tone was riddled with uncertainty.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, "You aren't a client. Yet you are in the army and are wishing to speak to me."

The young man cleared his throat.

"My name in Private Robert." He said, voice strained even though he cleared it. "I have a message for you from Captain John Watson. He made me promise I tell you when I came home."

"What?" Sherlock asked, "When did you speak to him"

"A few weeks ago." Robert said.

"Why can't he just tell me?" Sherlock, for a rare moment, was confused.

Robert gave a sigh, with a small laugh.

"He said you would probably act this way."

"Act how?"

"Like you didn't even know he left."

"John left?"

"Yes," Robert said, "He returned to the War in Afghanistan three months ago."

* * *

**DUN DUN DUN!**

**But yeah, this is an idea I really think should be explored. So many times, John goes back to the war; and Sherlock's all: *ANGST ANGST AGNST!* but what if Sherlock didn't even know John left?**

**I think you can all guess why Robert is there. But what do you think the message is? Stay tuned!**


	2. Chapter 2

"_What_?" Sherlock all but yelled "Why didn't he _tell me_?"

"John said he did tell you. But you probably deleted it"

Sherlock's anger at John vanished, John probably did tell him, but Sherlock deleted it. Why did he take that information as 'useless'? Why? Why? _Why?_

Sherlock felt horror pierce through his veins.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked. "Why did John tell you to give me a message?"

Robert looked everywhere but at the Consulting Detective.

Not Good.

"Because…" Robert's voice strained "because…"

"_TELL ME!" _

"He's dead."

Everything came to a screeching halt.

"What?" Sherlock's voice was small. So _so_ small.

"We got ambushed." Robert explained, "He got shot, right in the heart, just as backup arrived. By the time we could get to him, nothing could be done."

Sherlock couldn't cry. Not with this stranger present.

"Leave." Sherlock said it bluntly.

"Don't you want to know what John said?"

"Why does it matter?" Sherlock's voice was wavering. John picked the right person for this mission.

"Because it was the last thing he said." Robert explained.

Sherlock just stared. He couldn't help but remember the time when he asked John what he would say if he were dying. Way back when they weren't even flatmates. Back then he said "Please, God, let me live." But now, the last thing was to do with Sherlock…

"What did he say?"

"He wanted you to know, that he was sorry."

"For what?" Sherlock asked. Did they have a row before John left?

"Didn't say" Robert said, "His last words were: 'Tell Sherlock, I'm sorry'"

* * *

**Two chapters down, two to go.**

**I will sadly, not get into the nature of John's apology. That will be left to the reader's imagination. So, please share your ideas to why John wanted Sherlock to know he was sorry. Maybe it will become a one-shot. Next part: angst.**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was now in front of John's grave. He didn't need to look at the gravestone. But he knew.

He just didn't know if you got to say goodbye. Not a grunt of acknowledgement. But a proper goodbye. One you say to someone when you might never see them again.

He was crying. He didn't know where he was, or what time was it. All he knew, was that he was crying.

* * *

He doesn't know how long it has been. Ever since Robert visited him, time didn't have a meaning. It rushed during cases; when he was deducing. But was always painfully slow when there should have been a '_fantastic_' or '_amazing_' or '_brilliant_''. When there should have been John, a second felt like an eternity.

He heard a voice.

"Sherlock, you need to wake up!"

It was so warm, inviting. Achingly familiar.

"Please Sherlock…" the Voice continued, "it's been almost a month. Give me a sign you are somewhere in there."

Sherlock didn't want to. He didn't want to do anything. Nothing had any rhyme or reason anymore.

"Please," the Voice begged, "For me."

Suddenly, Sherlock began searching frantically for the source of the voice. It seemed to be everywhere at once. But he searched. He wanted to make the Voice happy.

He then felt like someone was holding his hand. Even though no one was there. The hand gave Sherlock a feeling of comfort. He squeezed the, non-existent, hand.

The Voice was ecstatic at that.

"Thank God!" it said, "You are coming around."

The voice laughed in relief. Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the laugh. It was a laugh he loved to hear. Made him feel he did something right.

The Voice seemed to like Sherlock smiling even more. But it still asked more of Sherlock.

"Sherlock, can you please open your eyes?" it asked, "Please."

_But my eyes are open_.

"For me."

There it was again. Sherlock felt obligated to do what the Voice asked when it added those two words.

So Sherlock closed his eyes.

He opened them.

* * *

**This is probably my favourite part. I really liked writing Sherlock's reactions to the Voice.**

**I bet you all know who the Voice is though…**


	4. Chapter 4

He was lying in a hospital bed. A machine next to him measured his heart rate, which was going slightly faster than usual. A tube attached to his wrist was feeding him nutrients.

And right at his bedside? Holding his hand with an expression of pure ecstasy?

"John…" Sherlock croaked.

Kind, brave, wonderful, brilliant, _amazing_, John in all his jumper-wearing glory.

The fact that John looked like he hadn't had a proper meal, or a good night rest; both things he nagged Sherlock to do; in a month didn't bother him,

What was important was that John was alive.

Sherlock then tried to hug John. But his limbs were like spaghetti from lack of movement. But John knew what Sherlock wanted and pulled him into an embrace. Sherlock gripped John as tightly as he could. He also shook with light sobs.

The hug didn't last long. John had raised Sherlock's bed so he could sit up.

"You don't remember what happened?" John asked

Sherlock, still shaken from the terrible nightmare he faced, simply shook his head.

"A month ago we were on a case, Dr. Robert, remember? He drugged people and when they woke up, they said that they had had a nightmare, their _worst_ nightmare and it felt so real. We were confronting him. He got a hold of you. He jabbed you with a needle and injected you with the drug. You collapsed, your body limp. You were unconscious. As for the criminal…" John fell silent, thinking of the best way to explain, before resuming "he got detained and you were rushed to hospital."

"And have you left that chair?" Sherlock asked, voice still weak.

"What do you think?" John said, with a slight smile, "I needed to see if you were alright"

"You should go." Sherlock's voice a bit stronger, "I am alright and you need to eat and get some sleep. You always nag me to do that."

John rolled his eyes before leaving, with a promise to be back tomorrow.

Sure, once Sherlock was discharged from the hospital; John had forbid any experiments and cases for a month. Telling Sherlock "you're still recovering, the dosage you were given was far stronger than the others.", but Sherlock was alright with it. As long as he was living in a reality where John was alive, well and with Sherlock; Sherlock would have gone without experiments and cases for longer.

All was as it should be.

* * *

**There you go! All just a drug-induced nightmare! I am not cruel enough to kill John for real!**

**Unless you choose to believe Sherlock's hallucinating./strike**

**And a big THANK YOU to all that favourited and followed this story! I hope it met your expectations!**


End file.
